


The Daily Life of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson

by beesandjam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Fluff, Home Life, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, everything really, sherlock drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beesandjam/pseuds/beesandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock's typical life in the flat involving everything and nothing all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Walk Through Troubles

**Author's Note:**

> These drabbles come from my John and Sherlock Q&A blog. You can find it here: http://obviouslydeduced.tumblr.com/
> 
> This is also uploaded onto fanfiction.net here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9395840/1/The-Daily-Life-of-Sherlock-Holmes-and-Dr-Watson

Sherlock had been on countless walks in his life; afternoon strolls as a toddler with big brother Mycroft and mummy, ambles in the spring durning high school to regain his self-awareness (also to contemplate the reported evidence of recent murders), and many trudges- typically in wicked rain- to scrutinize if it were time to reveal his breathing self to John after he rused his death. All without being realized by the violinist were important walks. Though sawing through his instrument was an obvious indignation to continuos thinking, Sherlock reacted positively to traveling around a designated area, especially with a chosen companion.

John wouldn’t call himself cross with Sherlock’s recent behavior, but it was irritating him more that usual.

There had been an odd lack of cases in the previous weeks and it seeped through the consulting detective like heat on snow fall. As a consequence, John was coming close to his boundaries with patience. He wished dearly to help Sherlock, but his ideas were slowly fading away. The doctor was lucky for one decent thought that would strike Sherlock’s mind.

So there the two men were, one striding, the other attempting persistently to catch up from behind, walking through their nearby park. John’s fingers were kept twisted around each other (while in his pockets- he didn’t need to upset Sherlock) in hope that his last strive to keep the violinist entertained would not prove fatal.

"Explain the conclusion to your recent experiment," John stated, while finally matching his flatmate’s quick pace. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly- his eagerness breaking through the stoic mask he owned- and the selected side of his mouth was pulled taut into a slight smirk. “Well, with only examining the fingers, I realized that Molly’s trite assumption was incorrect. A paper cut would have never killed a man. There was dirt under the nail, which after testing, revealed that he was a cigarette addict. Though I do not currently understand why Molly couldn’t see this simply regarding to his mouth, his cause of death was quite evident. Nothing too complicated.”

John’s chin tilted upwards, since he was incredibly short for his age, and he muttered the words “Brilliant, Sherlock” wile his eyes met the violinist’s.

Sherlock’s eyebrows pressed into a line. “Oh, it was nothing.”

"No, it is. You’re very talented," John assured, bestowing a flick of a nod to the other consulting detective before placing his eyes back onto the ground.

A very brief and faint snort was released of of Sherlock’s mouth. “Really?”

John smiled, his fingers unlocking themselves from each other. “I’m positive,” he chuckled amusingly, glancing upwards for another brief moment.

"Why, then," Sherlock grinned, "thank you."

"The pleasure was all mine." John flashed his own smile in return.


	2. A Necessity Called Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gets Sherlock to sleep.

"It’s not that difficult, Sherlock. Sleeping is natural."

In response, the violinist flipped his body over and grunted with a long, fulfilling sigh, which seemed to push John over the edge.

The detective’s fingers slid his phone out from underneath the pillow, turned it on, and pushed his boredom away briefly- but the doctor wasn’t blind.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, forcing his own frame off the bed to retrieve the phone. After he had done so, John sat on the border of the mattress nearest to the other man.

The detective swept the covers over his face, a flash of memory perking past his thoughts, reminding him that John thought he could cut fabric with his cheekbones. Sherlock snickered replying, “Give me back my phone.”

"No," John remarked, "I’ve hidden it."

It wasn’t that complicated. “Dresser, bottom right drawer. Under the grey shirt.”

"You’re not playing on it, even if you know where it is."

John groaned, moving over to Sherlock’s side and pulling the covers away from the infamous sea green eyes and firm chin. His fingers found their way to the consulting detective’s back and began swirling patterns onto the cotton. It always did seem to relax Sherlock.

After a few moments, Sherlock mumbled a practically incoherent “Thank you” into his sheets. 

John nodded as he realized the violinist was drifting off and made himself more comfortable within the blankets, netting his body beside Sherlock’s. In the end, John decided, it wasn’t difficult for the detective to sleep. It was strenuous for Sherlock to let go, giving up all his worries and leaving his so called “mind palace”.

John let himself wonder how the palace visually materialized. Were there curtains or blinds? Blue accents or brown? Carpet or wooden flooring? Knowing Sherlock, John presumed that this “palace” didn’t look like a place at all. Eventually, he gave up faultlessly and followed Sherlock’s lead- sleeping.


	3. A Task of Dreary Soberness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock + alcohol= not the best thing in the world.

In some way, though John couldn’t fathom how, Sherlock consumed practically a whole bottle of wine in an hour. It was amusing, John thought, to watch his flatmate act so strangely, but it grew to a point where enough was enough and the alcohol needed to be put away and the gun needed to be hidden once more just as a precaution.

John made a swift move by sliding the bottle carefully out of the drunk man’s grip. He put the cork back in and was just about to turn away when Sherlock’s hand clenched on to John’s wrist. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, the doctor noticed.

"Noooo," complained the violinist, dragging John back to the couch where he lay sprawled out- hair stuck to his sweaty face, body trembling, and fingers etched cold.

John looked down, his face attempting to stay within a frozen emotion, though it would never be possible. His eyes squinted down at Sherlock and his lips were strained into a slight smile. “Yes, let go or I’ll throw it out the window.”

"Never!" cried the detective, whose legs swept out and knocked the doctor over with one swift motion.

John steadily pushed his body off of the ground and stood up. “You know,” he grunted, holding the bottle behind his back, “pirates aren’t supposed to be this mad when their drink is taken away.”

"Aye!"

Man, he was a goner.

Quickly, John placed the wine where only a sober man could reach and returned to Sherlock. He sat next to him in the little space left vacant, swept the violinist’s hair out of his eyes, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. “Let’s go to bed,” he mumbled.

Sherlock nodded as he entered the dreary stage of being drunk. His mouth thrashed through a drought, but he still managed to keep his attention on the doctor. “Mhmm,” he slurred as a response.

It was a difficult task, but John was able to lead Sherlock to his room with hands firm on the violinist’s hips. Once he tucked the detective in bed, John slid in himself. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

"I love you."

John chuckled, his fingers gliding through Sherlock’s hair. “Sure you do.”


	4. A Questioning Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

Once John had placed the Aspirin, two glasses of water, and a damp cloth on his bedside table, Sherlock politely asked if he would join him in bed.

 

"But Sherlock," John implied, one had reaching to rub the back of his neck, "I must go to work. You already made me miss a week."

It took Sherlock a minute to reply due to the headache, but he responded “No, you chose to take the week off yourself, I did nothing. Plus, you have precisely an hour and twenty-two minutes before you even ought to leave. Sit.”

John finally agreed, placing himself at the edge of the bed while Sherlock swallowed some pills. “How bad?”

"On a scale of one to ten- ten being the worse," the violinist reported, pushing his body upward so he was sitting up, "a five. Not nearly close to my substandard."

"How often have you been blasted?"

Sherlock swallowed, placing his hands together just in front of his mouth. The doctor watched with careful eyes as he did this, realizing that the detective didn’t usually do this when recalling his own memories. “I used to visit the pub between three to seven times a week when I was ‘dead’. I never consumed alcohol before that occasion, but-” he took a sip of his drink, “I suppose that I haven’t dropped the habit if substances are near. By the way, you should think about moving the wine. The third shelf in the first cabinet is not the most secure place.”

"I made sure you didn’t see me when I hid it!"

Sherlock chuckled. He did love to see ordinary minds at work. “I wasn’t that drunk, John. Most of it was an act.”

The doctor became flustered. “So, your words before you dozed off weren’t caused by the alcohol?”

Th violinist’s hands moved away from his mouth. “I’m afraid not”

"I have to go to work."

Sherlock nodded, knowing that John still had over an hour before his departure was necessary.


	5. A Meal for Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock cooks a meal for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This was a M!A request on the blog)

After finishing with his violin, answering a few messages, and finishing the very easy code, Sherlock practically strutted to the kitchen, glad that John asked for one of the few meals he could prepare alone.

From where he was sitting, John had a decent view of Sherlock setting up dinner and his computer screen, where he worked on the second part of the case which Sherlock had instructed him to start on. “Need help?” he called out willingly, just as Mrs. Hudson set foot into their flat.

"I can always tell he’s cooking when I smell something burning," she remarked, hip balanced against the wall while she peered at the paper placed between he fingers. "There’s a letter here for you, Sherlock," she called out just before he arrived to where she was in the doorway.

"Thank you," he briefly said, plucking the letter from her futile grip and placing it loosely into the pocket of his robe, which fluttered behind him just as if he were a Royal. "By the way," he practically yelled back, though in a nice tone, "nothing is burning. The ingredients were rotten to the core."

"Would you like to use some of mine, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, her voice louder so Sherlock could hear her over the ruckus he was creating in the kitchen.

"Garlic?" he called back while he slammed a pot harshly onto the counter.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, though mostly in intention of John, for Sherlock couldn’t view her at the moment. “I’ll bring it right up.” She disappeared down the steps.

John shut his laptop. “You were going to blame it on me, weren’t you?”

Sherlock paused his mixing of the noodles. “Hmm?” he mumbled, glancing to see John with his head resting onto of his fist casually.

"The bitter ingredients. You were going to blame it on me for not going to the store and picking more up."

His eyebrows mashed against one another. “No. I should have gotten more,” he responded, turning back to the stove where he continued to stir at the pasta.

"Here it is!" Exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, who rushed through the door and placed the garlic on the counter top next to a filled beaker. Sherlock curtly nodded as John said, "Thanks."

"Not a problem at all. You boys get some rest tonight. Good luck with the pasta, dear!" And on that note, the door was closed, the pasta was cooked, and Sherlock had begun on the sauce.

John stood up and brushed off his jeans before walking to the kitchen. “What was the letter about?” he asked, grabbing two cups from the cupboard. 

"Read it to me," Sherlock demanded, though it was a usual hearing for John. After the glasses were filled with water and placed on the table, he moved to where the violinist was and slid the envelope out of his pocket.

"Uh.. Mycroft says there’s another murder with this case we’re on. Why is he asking us for help so often?"

Sherlock disregarded the question promptly. “He’s busy,” he muttered to himself while pouring the sauce into the bowls of pasta,”he never sends letters with that sort of information.”

The doctor sat down with a fork in hand. Forks once had scared him (food fights in training were not the prettiest), but the marks on his forearm slowly faded years earlier.

Sherlock met John at the table, placing the bowls where they would be sitting. “This shouldn’t be complete rubbish,” he mumbled quietly, stabbing the pasta with his fork and placing it in his mouth while John did the same. Sherlock wasn’t exactly nervous, but he did hope greatly that John would sincerely admire his cooking.

"Sherlock," the doctor started after swallowing, "this pasta is fantastic. You must cook more often.”

"If I have the time," the violinist remarked, sipping from his water.

John was impressed. The two times prior to this “experiment” had failed and it was nice to see a meal come out decent from Sherlock’s preparing and for the detective to consume it himself. “Wonderful,” John said without a thought.


	6. A Not-So-Frightening Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, and predictions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is also a M!A for the boys to watch a horror movie. I received many at the time.

Following the popping of popcorn and the brewing of unhappy tea, John clicked on The House at the End of the Street with the remote. “It’s an American film,” he mentioned, placing a bowl on Sherlock’s lap along with a mug beside him, “and it’s said to not be too scary, but realizing that you deal with murders and such daily, this shouldn’t be too bad.”

 

“I’m not frightened,” stated the violinist with his normal, stoic expression as he gaze set on the television and John pressed play.

~~~

Sherlock converted to an extremely bored sense rapidly. Once twenty minutes had passed, he’d already mentioned how Ryan looked similar to the kid they’d helped out in Baskerville.

“How did you know it was him the whole time?” John questioned, glancing over to him.

“How did you not?”

“Since Carrie Anne was in the picture.”

“Carrie Anne was merely a prop, it was simple.”

On that note, John snapped off the screen, placed his palms firmly on the chair’s arms, and forced his lips together to keep the frustration from exiting them through words.

Though the doctor didn’t exactly know if Sherlock’s explanation was true or not, he was fairly sure that his partner was correct.

“Great job,” he muttered before his ability to contain himself much wore rotten. John strode to the kitchen swiftly.

The violinist licked his lips. “Did I-,” he began, though John’s pacing dialogue cut him off.

“Yes, yes you did. I just wanted to have a nice night with you, Sherlock. We didn’t have a case, you weren’t terribly bored, and we already had the disc. I merely wanted to enjoy myself, but no. That’s not possible with ‘Mr. I Deduced Every Bloody Thing I Can’.”

The doctor’s face was slowly whirling to a light shade of red, his fingers were clenched tight as he walked back and forth between the island and the cabinets.

Sherlock knew that there were only a few options at this point, so he chose the one he found most fitting. While John was facing the away, the violinist embraced him from behind, whispering “My apologies.” in his ear.

At first, the doctor’s body was gritted, but it faded when Sherlock’s breath was at his neck. His fists released, inhales evened, and mouth relaxed.

John nodded while the violinist moved in front of him. “Your apologies are accepted,” he muttered, cupping Sherlock’s cheeks with two hands and pressing his lips against the detective’s.

“I can’t reason that, now can I?”

“I’m afraid not.”


	7. A Jest on Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo pull a prank on Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is, yet again, another M!A in which John and Sherlock must pull a prank on Mycroft while one distratcs him by talking about the fandom and shipping and such... Yeah.

Throughout the cab ride to Mycroft’s, Sherlock and John couldn’t halt their repartee about the plan. It was going to be exciting and the two men knew this fact well. Although the practical joke was very foolish and trivial, Sherlock had never repaid his big (in all senses) brother for stealing his shoes as a child.Description: http://assets.tumblr.com/javascript/tiny_mce_3_5_5/themes/advanced/img/trans.gif

 

Mycroft’s butler answered the door when the pair arrived. “This is the residence of Mr. Holmes,” the servant stated promptly, “how may I assist you?”

"Yes, yes, we understand this is Mycroft’s living space. I need to see him," said Sherlock, whose jitters were being released by scrunching his toes while they were inside his shoes.

"I will have to speak with him before-" he commenced, though Sherlock had shoved past him with John on his heels. 

After two flights of stairs, three hallways to the left, one to the right, and a room was journeyed through, they arrived at where the violinist had guessed his brother’s location perfectly.

"How did you get in here?" Mycroft asked, the corner of his eyes crinkled, while he stood up, fixing his suit placement as he did so.

Sherlock shot John a quick glance to reassure him of the plan, placed his hands in his pockets as if to seem casual, and sighed sarcastically. “The door was open. Where’s the washroom?” he asked, though he knew the entire arrangement of the intricate and expensive flat by heart. The blueprint of it sat merely in the corner of his desk drawer.

"When you come up from the stairs, it’s the second door to the right," responded the dieting man.

The violinist nodded curtly, turned, and headed for a room that wasn’t quite the bathroom.

John started a conversation that would end up perceiving quite oddly. “That case you had us working on a week ago?” the doctor asked, while Mycroft responded with a muffled ‘mhmm’ as he sat down once more. “Well, whilst we did research on it, we stumbled upon countless websites with depictions and fictional works about ourselves as a couple. We became quite vexed. They call these happenings ‘Johnlock’. Apparently, the phrase, per se, is a combination of both of our names.”

During the time that John explained terms such as ‘shipping’, ‘OTP’, and ‘fandom’ to Mycroft while telling an utterly false story, Sherlock rushed upstairs to his brother’s room and inaugurated his labor.

First, he slid off his coat- a coat that had contained all umbrellas they could possibly find and fit inside. Immediately following the violinist popping open one of them and placing them equally around the king sized mattress, he scribbled ‘Harsh luck is never fun, is it Mycroft? Perhaps you ought to end carrying umbrellas with you when it’s sunlit.’ onto a card and placed it on the dresser. Prior to his exit, Sherlock made a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Six minute later, the violinist was assembling in the cab, twenty-three left shoes somehow fitting into his coat, shooting John a text saying that he was clear.

Two minutes later the doctor glided into the seat next to Sherlock and the cab retraced their route.

One minute later and the men were tearing between their laughter.

"Oh, how I wish I could view his reaction!" cried Sherlock, body heaving up and down rhythmically with his chuckles.

"I’m sure we’ll see him very soon and you can ask him yourself!" responded John with a immoral smirk.


	8. A Minded Difficulty

John stood in the doorway of Sherlock’s room, which was slowly becoming shared, while viewing his flatmate curled up into a ball. “Will you tell me?” he asked softly.

Sherlock’s body curled tighter together, otherwise doing nothing in response. Never, he thought.

John rested his head on the doorframe and sighed. “Please?” he practically whined. Although these occurrences were becoming normal, the doctor couldn’t analyze his prescription without knowing what was wrong. 

Sherlock’s response was light, very faint; John could barely hear him, but he caught the words a second after they slipped from the violist’s dry mouth. “John, please leave,” he whispered, fingers clutching at the covers to pull them tighter against his frame.

The soldier padded softly to the other side of the bed so he could see Sherlock better. Pale face, shivering body, and John still couldn’t get his read. He flat out said it now, no need to continue analyzing something impossible. “Is there anything I could perhaps do to help?” he pleaded, arms crossed over his chest in a relaxed manner.

After a few moments, Sherlock blinked his eyes open, his gaze fixed almost drunkenly on John. As he slowly lost the ability to speak, his body pressed even tighter against itself and he bit the inside of his mouth to steady the amount of physical pain to mental.

If John only knew what Sherlock was fighting he could appreciate the strength his flatmate had even more so. He sat on the edge of the bed, making caution to give Sherlock the proper room of comfort on the mattress. “Please,” he babbled, “I’ll try to assist.” John locked his sight on Sherlock’s eyes, the infamous sea greens mixing with sky blues once more. At that exact moment John stopped attempting to help- just the short connection they had gave the doctor all of his information. With a mere lover’s gaze, John saw all the pain hidden in Sherlock’s mind, all the demons he locked away in that godamned palace, every crowded thought as it was caged amongst others. Watson was sure his violinist would abide the prescription he was about to give.

With a quick motion, John stirred so he was adjacent to Sherlock. He slithered his arms around the detective’s ribs, pressing his forehead against the other man’s with thoughts of comfort. After one sought kiss was pressed unto Sherlock’s temple, John stammered, “I’m sorry,” though he wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for. Was it that Sherlock had to suffer and he didn’t? No, John suffered for over a year. Was it that Sherlock was so far in the negativity that John couldn’t reach him? Quite possibly, yes.

While staring into the blind compassion that John was offering, Sherlock managed a simple smile that let John know his attempts were helping in some way; it was the best he could manage, the pain was taking hold of his body. Words he wished to say were knotted somewhere deep within his vocal chords but he couldn’t push them out. His best was to nudge John’s chin up until he could slide his head underneath. John smelled like warm tea, Sherlock realized for the first time, jam and a hint of gunpowder. Gunpowder? The last time he used his gun was a week ago. The violinist pushed the thought away; it wasn’t worth deducing at the time, he’d rather let himself sink into John’s embrace.

A small smile slipped from John’s lips as Sherlock brought him closer, a ray of sun throughout out a wild storm. His finger’s clutched onto the back detective’s dressing gown as he mumbled, ”It will be fine, I’ll make sure of it,” into Sherlock’s curls.

Unable to show his appreciation, the violinist stretched out his legs and attempted speech, though it appeared as a light wail. He began chuckling to himself in frustration as some of the thoughts began to slip from their cages.

"What?" John smirked, his legs entangling with Sherlock’s. He couldn’t even begin to recount how many times he’d slept in that bed alone as his friend was dead. It was so nice to hold him here instead of imagining it all, the soldier noted.

Sherlock moved so he could see John’s face again and trailed his lips along the doctor’s jaw, finally able to say, “I love you.” The detective decided that it was better than any ‘Thank you’.

John grinned as his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s curls, messing them up just slightly. “I love you too,” he hummed with delight.


	9. An Attempt of Slavage

The spot next to John had run cold, but that wasn’t his first clue.

The door has been opened, though that only helped.

John had woken with a slight daze, his fingers clutching towards his right to find that now-familar, long, lanky frame although nothing but cold sheets and an oddly placed pillow greeted him. He forced open his eyes, becoming slightly angered by the brightness of Sherlock’s clock and it’s welcome of a very new day (3:42 was downright glum for people with the possibility of work in the coming hours). In the background of all this, he could hear the faintness of a violin and it was only a matter of seconds for his sleep driven mind to realize it all.

Nightmare. Sherlock. Violin. Must. Help.

Groggily, the doctor slid his leg out from under the covers and forced himself off of the bed. Once that was accomplished, he somehow maneuvered his way through the kitchen and to the sitting room. Sherlock was perched near the window, hand sliding back and forth with his instrument, body pacing with the rhythm and causing his robe to flutter behind him with his every movement. It was then when John decided all his actions were worth it. Even if this sight may have caused him rage in the past, seeing it now brought a slight smile to his loose lips. He softly padded to the chair nearest the violinist and the windows, but he didn’t dare sit down, only merely allowed his eyes to unfortunately blink back his dreariness.

Sherlock took notice of his blogger as soon as he stepped out from his room, for the window reflected the light created inside the flat. The detective was silent though, watching John attempt to stay awake in thoughts of his struggle. How sentimental, was his initial, subconscious, violin seeking thought. I must repay him, was his second and it ripped the notes out of the instrument due to lack of concentration.

John bolted awake- he’d already begun to drift off while admiring Sherlock’s music. “Something wrong?” asked the detective, whom was now placing his violin on the table and making a quick check of their combined personal blog. A few new followers, many scattered likes, and an ask, but he would save that for a later time.

The soldier’s response was frankly muddled. “Hmm? Oh, yes…ah..what….was your nightmare of..tonight?” Without noticing it, he began swaying, his aching body already drifting back to sleep.

The poor man, Sherlock noted to himself, rushing over to catch John from falling over and slowly and when crowded warmly by firm libs John regained the strength to keep his eyes open for longer intervals. He didn’t know how, but Sherlock kept his mind running; kept sleep further away.

Once he had deemed the doctor capable of holding himself upright and stepped back to the window, Sherlock babbled his response feebly. “It’s nearly the same one each time. You die and I cannot save you.”

John’s fingers ran over his face before settling them in his pajama pant’s pockets. “The violin was nice,” he sighed, a smile once again taking residence of his face.

"Helped me until you awoke, though I do wish you would return to bed, John. You don’t appear to be doing too well."

John’s typical plead slipped from his throat persistently. “Not until you do. I’m awake for your mental health.”

The violinist’s head tilted to the side just slightly while his lips pulled back into a soft grin. “Fine, but I’m not guaranteeing any process on my side.” 

"As long as you know I’m safe," John heartened, eyes crinkled at the corners, " and stay in bed, no electronics and such, I will allow it."

"Why wouldn’t you?"

The doctor’s eyes closed for a brief moment, but opened before he responded. “Not now, Sherlock. I’m too tired to think,” he blankly stated, body subconsciously making its way through the kitchen (and nearly taking down every piece of furniture with it, or until Sherlock stepped in and held him firmly around the waist).

Once he was guided to the bed by his flatmate, John snuggled against Sherlock’s chest, somehow managing to place himself on top of the man. Normally just the mere sight of this would startle the detective and fluster him, his thoughts not yet softened by physical affection, but tonight was a brief exception. Almost everyday was an exception with John, it seemed. With John’s breaths rising and falling continuously on Sherlock’s chest, he was reminded of his living, breathing blogger. For John, simply having the violinist there allowed the him to sleep. They both gained from each other’s losses without even knowing of it.

After a long while of swirling patterns into the doctor’s back as he soundly slept, Sherlock picked up John’s book on the bedside table and read positively about a boy who lived.


	10. An Encounter of Epiphanies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked to write my view on their reunion after the Fall - hence this update.

John took his time down the steps. It wasn’t a client since the ring was held for far too many seconds (plus, he’d stop accepting them a few months back- his concentration couldn’t keep up with both cases and depression) and it wasn’t Lestrade or Mycroft because they’d never show up at a time such as this. John was one of the few to be awake at two in the morning; his thoughts were battling with him once more. As his fingers clasped around the chilled door handle, he took a deep breath and then pulled quietly. By no means was he prepared for what was standing in the entry way.  
It was on a chilly night that Sherlock decided to return. He’d been staying at Mycroft’s for a few months just so he could keep an eye on his blogger, seeing that Mycroft had lenses to the world. Sherlock had known early before his fall that his feelings for John were softly slipping into something of much more substance, but he, the great detective, couldn’t put a finger on it until he was pacing throughout a park in November. It hit him like cement on earth, filling his lungs almost as if he couldn’t breathe or move. All those quiet realizations of John had now broke free from their cages in the back of Sherlock’s mind. How funny, that you could begin to love someone without being in their presence. A few moments later he stood in the comforting doorway, aching eyes now relived to see John in person, no longer watching him from behind a screen at Mycroft’s estate. He’d lost just about fourteen pounds, his hair was etched lighter, and his eyes were swollen from the day’s struggles, but it was John. John Hamish Watson, Sherlock’s one and only friend and flatmate. Best friend, actually, he noted while witnessing John’s jaw practically falling out of place, his eyes narrowing, and hand gripping more firmly on the door. “Hello, John,” Sherlock practically stammered, which was a rare thing for him to do as he shivered from November’s chill. 

"But- you’re- I’m just-" John tried, fingers now releasing the door while he took a disbelieved step back in anguish and grief. It was all so sudden and only logically he could only be dreaming. The images played once more in John’s head- Sherlock’s body falling to it’s doom off of Bart’s, then his bloodied skull and pulseless corpse. It couldn’t be real, it was only reasonable for him to be hallucinating once more, for he did take to that seemingly often.

Being simple as usual, John’s thoughts were easily read by the violinist- almost like a book. “You’re not imagining things this time, John. I’m here. I’m real. And I’m sorry,” Sherlock began, his sea greens locked tightly onto John’s- now faintly watering -sky blues. Cautiously, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, but it was nothing against John’s attempt at finding reality.

In an instant, John’s aching knuckles pressed not so lightly against Sherlock’s jaw just before his opposing fist did the same to Sherlock’s chest. This will prove it, John thought while punching the living Sherlock, this will stop the hallucinations, those bloody bastards. They can’t come when they’re not real.

Although Sherlock had expected this on his heightened journey over, the jabs came with a sudden rush of lost emotion, tumbling over the savaged detective with a cry of dreaded enthusiasm. Sherlock allowed John to continue for a few more moments, the strikes not causing any serious pain or cuts, but he then suddenly pressed John against the wall, hands clenching fists, restraining the delusional man with a passionate, vanished, and guilty gaze. Once both men had panted heavily for a decent amount of time- John suddenly realizing that this was indeed his Sherlock, not another one of his misconceptions; Sherlock trying to cage those thoughts consisting of his new emotions just long enough for them to have the conversation he’d imagined far too often -John sputtered his theoriries out loud without much organization while gawking at his flatmate. “You.. Why? All these months and you couldn’t have clued me in the slightest? You couldn’t have written me a letter? It’s not that hard…to…to save me from all this unnecessary pain. I..I almost killed myself, Sherlock. I almost followed your lead cluelessly and…and you didn’t do anything?”

"You know I wouldn’t have let you-"

John words had more of an aggressive edge to them as he pushed back against Sherlock’s restraining frame. He wasn’t intending on hitting him anymore, but by no means would John allow himself to be controlled any longer “You did! You let me suffer! You saw my pain and sat there and watched! You did nothing, Sherlock!”

"It was necessary, John. You were in danger," Sherlock managed, now bewildered by his mind’s limited capacity when dealing with John’s unseeing exasperation all while aiming horribly to cage his own intentions.

"No, no you didn’t!" John yelled, knocking Sherlock forcefully out of his way and charging with a hustle back to the stairs. In a swift catch of the sleeve, though, Sherlock was able to bring the fuming doctor back in front of him. As sea greens infiltrated the sky blues, Sherlock’s lips thoughtlessly pressed against his blogger’s. 

At first, John’s adrenaline pumped body was startled at the moment that Sherlock’s lips moved against his own devotedly, but soon, without any thought or precautions, he matched the violinist’s pace and curled his arm around that- once pulseless -familiar frame. It all happened so fast and both John and Sherlock mentally agreed this as their caresses parted; John staring at Sherlock in sudden disbelief and Sherlock mumbling his apologies to the doctor. “It’s fine,” John hummed back, not realizing the significance in his words as he said them, “it’s all fine.”


	11. A Non-virtue and Its Effects

Sherlock was located on the sofa, his slender body practically spilling over the edges as his hands perched up near his mouth. John, on the other hand, had taken work off to be with his silent companion and was brewing cups of tea in the kitchen. His few attempts earlier proved futile, seeing as the detective didn't respond quite well when John decided to fumble with the violin or play the telly at a level of volume considered a ridicule. Even Mrs. Hudson stopping by didn't lessen his ways when bearing in mind that she aimed to chat with him.

Once he had finished with a the tea, John sauntered into the sitting room with two cups in his hands and placed them both on the table adjacent to the couch. Now sitting on the floor near Sherlock's head, the caring doctor began talking.

"I do trust that we have both agreed you can hear me," he began, raking his hand through his hair while his lips pressed in thought of what to say next.

His mind fumbled for the most decent words before settling on some he believed worthy of the violinist to hear. "Sherlock, I understand why you are doing this, and the necessity of it all, but for me may you communicate again? I'm becoming quite lonely without the bickering," he chuckled, "and I'm certain you long for more of my complaints once more"

Other than a very slight crook of a smile, there was no response from the detective. John sighed.

He clutched his laptop from the coffee table near him and began typing before reciting words off of chance webpage. Somehow, he had a bit more of hope in this attempt than the others and decided if it didn't work, he'd merely leave the great detective to vocalize on his own. "The words 'solar system' refer to the Sun or a star and all of the objects that travel around it. These objects include planets, natural satellites such as the Moon, the asteroid belt, comets, and meteoroids. Our solar system has an elliptical shape and is part of a-"

But then he was cut off.

"John, do you really think I'm that ignorant and brainless?" Sherlock scoffed, eyes narrowed in accusation at his blogger.

The soldier's face shot up with the maximum glee a grown man could have. Oh, how he'd desired for these rubbish, stubborn comments. "Finally," he breathed in exclamation while joining Sherlock on the couch. His firm arms wrapped around the gangly frame of his friend and he pressed his nose against the man's shoulder. There wasn't much excess room on the sofa now, not to mention the lack of it prior to John joining the detective.

With his chin resting atop John's head, Sherlock remarked softly, "I was here the whole time. You do know that, hmm?"

The doctor grinned as he nodded. "Just worried," he mumbled into the fabric of the violinist's dressing robe.

A smile, despite the fact that John couldn't see, appeared on Sherlock's lips- bright and joyful. "You always are," he murmured, swooping down to kiss the doctor swiftly on the forehead.


	12. A Problematic Homicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have uploaded my first chapter of my potter!lock fic, [A Dawn of Unworldliness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/935280) !   
> Thanks for reading, lovelies.

The tension was rising in the room, yet only a selected few were able to realize this. John still, after three years, couldn't fathom how one man could upset Sherlock in so many ways. How could such man lack the focus in which was meant to be on the murder? How was it possible that he couldn't tune Anderson out? The detective did have a prestigious mind, for Christ's sake.

The bantering had erupted just as the violinist sauntered into the crime scene. "Why is he here?" beckoned Sherlock, shooting a death glare at Anderson while the other man returned a snotty grin.

"Because he's on the job," Greg called out to the detective who was walking farther away at a quick pace. John stayed behind. "You really need to go out and get him a muzzle for these days," remarked Lestrade just slightly over his shoulder so the doctor could hear him.

John's arms remained at his sides as he contemplated the odd of finding a muzzle for humans. "I really should," he nodded slightly, gaze focused on Sherlock inspecting the body meters in front of him.

The detective began to beam in the time that he spurted out the relations of the evidence and the murder. "It's so simple," the man practically sang, "it was the brother!"

"Isn't it always the the brother?" Greg mocked, a loose chuckle forming in his throat. Sherlock, upon hearing this from the other side of the room, bore his eyes unto the D.I. As if to say: I can hear you. Lestrade flicked an eyebrow up in competitive response before being beckoned into another room by sergeant Donovan, leaving only the flatmates and Anderson in the room. Alone. John quickly became worried.

Anderson's nasally declaration didn't help the situation.

"We talked to him. It wasn't the brother. He didn't do anything," he tattered from the corner of the flat.

The doctor had to admit that Sherlock's response was calm compared to what it could have been. Slightly too calm, actually. "And what in your idiot mind proves that?" The detective's lips were pursed as he stood up from his previously crouched position near the body.

"We investigated him. He had no suspicious actions whatsoever."

"And are the murderers ever suspicious?" cooed Sherlock, who was now making his way over to where John stood silently- closer to Anderson. "Clearly he wasn't dubious!"

"It's improbable for the brother to kill his own sister."

Sherlock muttered his next words faintly, nevertheless them being still audible. "Bloody idiot."

Anderson's eyes locked on Sherlock's. "What?" he asked confidently, arms crossing over his chest.

"You heard me. Pretending to be deaf could be quite offense to some," the detective continue, creating a stride towards his opponent with his hands buried in his coat pockets.

Anderson ignored his comment and continued persisting with his opinion. "We've tested everything. The brother didn't touch her!"

"And are you positive?" Sherlock gritted through his teeth, inches away from the ignorant man's face, his long frame looming the over the Anderson. His stature was different than John's, the violinist now noticed. John stood more confidently, although he was a few centimeters smaller than Anderson. He never let Sherlock's height overpower him or his thoughts. Anderson was different. Anderson was adaptable in this matter of emotions and the detective used this flaw against him.

"Your mother left at a young age; your father was an alcoholic. Being an only child, as a teen you turned to drugs for sympathy of your situation. Someone..a teacher possibly..talked sense into you and turned you around before university. After scraping up the money for it, you spent five years there and met your wife, whom you've recently found you don't care much for when considering you and Sally have become a bit more, hmm, serious. Now if you'd please just accept that the victim was shot by her brother on the night of the sixteenth I'm sure all of this would go quite a bit smoother than it is now."

"Sherlock," John breathed, not requiring any more words to explain every distinct one of his thoughts. With just one look in the eye, Sherlock knew. He'd gone to far.

Anderson was breathing heavier now, his eyes firmly narrowed on the violinist and his fists clamped at his sides. He was obviously angered and Sherlock understood it would not end well.

A clenched hand flew through the air, but the detective was too quick. He ducked, sending a flailing Anderson past him, heading towards the stairs. He wouldn't have fell if Sherlock didn't trip him, but being the ignorant prick he was, he did and he sent the man tumbling down the flight of steps.

Lestrade, Donovan, and a few others came running once they heard the fall. "What happened?" the D.I. panted, looking down at his colleague at the bottom of the stairs, clearly wrecked.

John quickly glared at the violinist as if to say we'll deal with this later before responding casually, "He was just leaving when he fumbled with his footsteps and fell. Sherlock and I tried to help, but it was all too late."

After a few more moments of conversation, the members of Scotland Yard descended the flight of stairs to help the trembling man while the detective and his blogger (a quite unhappy one) fled the scene on the fire escape. Even though he managed to escape the fists of Anderson, by the time they got back to 221B Sherlock had acquired a few more bruises than he left with.


	13. An Inquiry of Government

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a M!A (magic!anon) for Sherlock and John to ask Greg of his relationship with Mycroft... here it is.

Lestrade had ordered the dynamic pair into his office on Wednesday evening simply to finalize the completion of the recent case in regards to the bomber. "So- That's it?" the D.I sighed once they had explained everything, pushing himself back into his chair and kicking his feet up all while his observation was perched onto the detectives.

"I stopped talking, didn't I? Don't be impractical; you know how it aggravates me," prattled Sherlock just before John hushed him by muttering his name. With a quick jab to the ribs by the doctor's elbow, the violinist knew what to say.

"How often are you in contact with my brother?" asked Sherlock, one eyebrow resting upwards in a knowing glare as he scoffed at Greg.

Lestrade was taken slightly aback. "Once a week- give or take," he responded hesitantly, his legs now withdrawing from their comfortable place upon his desk as he folded his arms across his chest, "he wants updates on you."

Sherlock shooed off the comment with his hand and shook his head. "No, but that isn't true. He's the government; he lacks the need of spies. He only wished for John to do so because he has no cameras inside our flat."

"Are you stating-?"

"No, not entirely. I'm asking you delicately- not insisting it. Some of the inhibiters on our shared blog have gotten a bit curious. "

Both Sherlock and Greg knew solely what they were talking about without even mentioning the subject. When Lestrade had come over for Christmas a few years prior, Sherlock had made a snide remark of Greg's wife and her affairs. Soon after in Baskerville the D.I. was seen without wedding ring. Mycroft had, as expected, began asking for updates before the commotion, but without a decent reasoning behind doing so. Because of this Lestrade felt slightly comfortable when staying at Mycroft's estate (in the guest room, obviously) while he sorted things out with the divorce and found himself a new flat. Their relationship, on the other hand, was still hit or miss- hence Sherlock asking about it, yet the detective knew if he put in the effort he could easily deduce the answer for himself.

Greg held up his hands in defense, eyes wide and mouth parted. "No, it's not that- at least I don't believe so. I haven't even seen him as much now that-"

"Then what is it?" Sherlock interrogated back, leaning forward just slightly.

John sighed, peering at his shoes while the two men argued, one rather sheepishly, at each other as if they were toddlers fighting over the same toy. The doctor couldn't quite fathom how many occasions Sherlock had began quarrels with Scotland Yard's employees that month- especially the one resulting in Anderson tumbling down the steps. Each time Sherlock seemed to have embarrassed his blogger even more so, nevertheless a doubt it was even possible at times.

"If you have so many questions, ask the man yourself!" bantered the D.I, triggering a few heads to turn around in various parts of the office (the glass didn't do anything for privacy, nor sound).

Sherlock rolled his sea greens. "As if that would be reasonable," he muttered, hands now locked into his pockets while one brushed the edge of his scarf which was shoved in there as well.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to argue with-"

The detective cut him off. "Oh, but you already are."

Lestrade stammered now through his frustration. John could tell he was trying to keep calm for the sake of everyone else, but his facade was slipping through his grip. "We're friends. I'm not sure if anything is past that, but when I finally do I'll be sure to inform either you or John. Thanks for the case."

With a shaky breath, the D.I. lead the pair to the door of his office and hauled them a cab once they got to the street.


	14. A Mindful Tranquil

John slipped two fingers into the handle of his cup as he ambled to where Sherlock was seated (well, sprawled actually- the man could never just simply sit) on the couch. When he appeared and the violinist took care to notice, Sherlock shuffled downwards just a bit so John could sit near his head. It was an old, worn habit that neither of them seemed to notice anymore. John would say it was traditional if he were to take observation.

When Sherlock continued with his thinking, John surveyed the television curiously on the opposing side of the room. It was, as always, Doctor Who in which they were watching. How the detective could actually stand- and apparently enjoy -it baffled John, but he made no comment about it in fear that these happenings would be lost.

It was somewhere during the middle of the episode when John mindlessly slipped his finger's through Sherlock's hair as he drank his tea delightfully with the differing one.

The detective did notice this, but had yearningly grown familiar with John's touches. They were always soft and subtle, yet full of spreading warmth that made it difficult for him not to mention. In a chance moment, Sherlock nudged John's thigh slightly and managed to prop his head up onto his blogger's legs- silently…no words needed. Thank you for being here, it said. They seemingly could go days without talking. Simple motions spoke louder to the pair than words did.

John's watch flickered from the telly to Sherlock, a smile present within his eyes and on his slim lips. It was small, his smile, but it was all the violinist needed. It was his response. Sometimes I think I enjoy this more than you, it said.

After eyeing John endearingly a bit, Sherlock closed his eyes, and damn it, slithered away to his thoughts. It wasn't the fact that his detective was no longer paying attention to the television, but the fact that his concentration was removed from his blogger in which made John frustrated. And it was all unknowingly because Sherlock was nowhere near his palace. Sherlock's thoughts were perfectly trained on John's fingers through his curls, John's deeps breaths against his cheek, John's warm body temperature seeping into his cold frame, John's slight shifts as he kept a gaze on him, John's… bloody hell- John's everything. And yet the doctor was put off marginally, but he smiled at his violinist nonetheless since you couldn't help but do that when watching him. You're very infectious, it said. And Sherlock didn't even need his sight to know.

They continued like that for a decent sum of time- John's fingers sifting through Sherlock's hair carefully, Sherlock focusing on John's every movement- until the detective spoke up.

"When did this really start?"

It was mumbled, buried in that sodding and affecting baritone of his, and it was engulfing. John swam in the sudden noise, his head bobbing up for air as he tried uselessly not to drown in the said matter and (now) opened eyes.

The question struck somewhere in his mind. Was the violinist referring to their current actions or was he referring to their relationship in general? Deciding that Sherlock would be more imposed to ask of the second, John swallowed and focused gaze on the fireplace. "I don't believe it actually did. Nothing in reference to us ever has a beginning," he responded, this time with words- even if they were superfluous.

But Sherlock didn't counter with a remark or a witty intellect or a fact- he glided his long and slender fingers around John's wrist and drew the doctor's arm upon his chest, the tea filled mug snug against his shirt. Let's not end this, it said.


	15. A Banter of Fire and Kindle

It wasn't even a special night. No holidays, no birthdays, no case to celebrate the closing of- no, tonight was a celebration of life.

Although Sherlock was sitting down this time rather than standing like that one New Year's and John was on his laptop, the violin music protruding from detective's fingertips danced around the room like glitter. He would be too ashamed to say it was a serenade, oh he would, but Sherlock was playing for John this time. It wasn't for his thoughts to slip into their selected pathways, nor entertainment through parched boredom, nor nightmarish insomnia. The music was for John and it swirled around him like fire and kindle.

The were sitting across from each other- John's gaze steadily focused on his (apparently slow, according to the violinist) typing and Sherlock's to the wall just behind the doctor's head. They spoke no words, for the action was becoming so dull and tedious and why was it ever invented anyway? Oh, yes; now he remembered.

Sherlock continued with the piece he'd composed himself for a long moment. John had become somewhat alert and closed that bloody computer of his, full attention on his detective.

They bantered soft looks at each other every now and then. Sherlock would almost gawp at John, his lips pulled back into a sloppy smile. John would return this look with his own chuckle. His eyes would crease at the corners, thin lips would stretch attentively, watch falling to the ground in light-hearted amusement.

These playful mockeries continued well past the music; somewhere in the middle of it all Sherlock stopped playing and his violin dropped next to him in the chair with a droning "thud".

He stood up, the detective, and moved across the sitting room with just two of his elegantly drunken strides, breathing in John's face before he could process a proper thought. As their foreheads bumped and nudged the other, their noses occasionally doing the same, the bantering looks were united.

John titled his head to the side.

Sherlock smiled wittingly.

John raised an eyebrow at this.

Sherlock didn't care the slightest.

And with a single second of movement their lips crashed and John tasted like jam and toast and toothpaste and it was all so wonderful even without the music or cases because it was all John. John, the one he cared about. John, the one he loved.


	16. A Muddled Comprehension

"Sherlock," gasped John as his eyes flew open. Almost two years later and the image of his best friend falling over and over and over again still haunted him in his dreams.

It took a few moments for his sky blues to adjust to the darkened bedroom, however they didn't alter fast enough. The soldier fumbled around numbly for Sherlock's frame and he muddled with the sheets in the process. And then the found it, the detective's hand left harmlessly open, just next to his left knee.

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and immediately checked for a pulse. Sure enough, it was there: Slow and steady and proving a most supreme point. Sherlock was still alive. He was no longer a corpse. And he was okay.

The detective woke then and as groggily and unhappily as he appeared (he wassleeping for the first time in days), he sat up and slipped an arm around John's waist. I'm here. Look at me. Feel my living warmth, it said.

With a long, sought out exhale John closed his eyes and leaned against Sherlock. He rested his chin on the shaggy man's shoulder and interlocked his fingers around his chest. John was able to feel the breathes coming and going from Sherlock's exceedingly warm body and all of his subtle movements… And he was alive. Sherlock. Was. Okay.

Moving his free hand up to massage John's temple, Sherlock sighed a small sigh that said: You'll be all right. This is typical for humans dealing with post-traumatic stress.

John bit the inside of his cheek, illogically persisting that his flat mate wasn't real, but he couldn't help but to deny that fact with all the evidence in front of him- Sherlock had taught him well. His fingers clutched tighter onto the violinist's dressing robe. I believe in you, it said.

And Sherlock nodded because he'd always known.


	17. A Resolution For Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John spent the weekend at Harry's. Sherlock wasn't very pleased.

Sherlock tapped his toes. Tossed his sight around the flat. Wiggled his ebony fingers. Clenched his teeth. Screamed. Yelled.

Consulting detectives weren't very patient.

John had been gone for over a three says now. Sherlock hadn't seen him for over seventy-two hours and he wasn't taking it well.

He hadn't eaten since Friday night, nor slept since that morning. Without a case to keep his mind running, his body began to shut down. Or tried to, at least. Sherlock forced it to do what he wanted because it was illogical for it to do things other than his command.

He sat recklessly in John's armchair as he fidgeted with every limb possible. The violinist was practically wearing holes into the flooring. It wouldn't surprise him if he actually did.

John said he would return home in the next ten minutes. But Sherlock couldn't wait that long.

He jumped to his feet and strode to the kitchen. Maybe tea would help. It always did for John.

Sherlock began the process of fumbling with the kettle when it became all too much. His gait stretched out back to the sitting room. To their bedroom. Back to the kitchen. To the washroom. To their bedroom again. The detective ran all about the flat, occasionally tossing over and tripping on some objects as he did so.

But one object was not like the others.

It was warm, and soft, and comforting. It was wrapped in a jumper and dark jacket and smelled like home. Because it was home. There, standing in the middle of the kitchen after Sherlock had run into him blindly, was John Watson.

Sherlock peered upwards with those magical and crystal and silver and blue and glittering eyes of his and John could see it. In an instant they shifted from hazy and cluttered to one thing: joy. Joy because John was back; joy because he did not have to suffer again. And that joy slipped into John's sky blues too. Instantly.

The doctor dropped his bags and clutched his arms around Sherlock's lanky frame for dear life. Sherlock's hand latched onto John's back and the other gripped onto his hair. John was home. He was okay. Harry didn't hurt him. John was home.

Sherlock had never imagined, not once in his lifetime, that he would become so dependent on someone, but he had himself to blame. He'd been the one who jumped off that sodding rooftop, he'd been the one to put them both into pain and he didn't like that. Not one bit, but John made that better. He always did.

John's head tucked under Sherlock's chin while he smiled a sloppy and goofy grin – almost similar to a drunken bloke's - and he couldn't stop it. No matter how hard he tried, the smile would not wipe off his face and it wouldn't for another two hours.

They remained in that embrace for a handful of minutes until John stepped back. He looked Sherlock dead in the eyes, continued with his childish beaming grin, and said, "Sherlock Holmes, you're a git."

The detective almost looked loopy, though technically he was love-struck. Not in a sappy, cliché way, but in the most sincere and natural manner possible. Because John was his rock, his core, his life, his everything and from that first moment in Bart's it was destined. No matter the style of relationship they had, John and Sherlock were soul mates.

The violinist shuffled up to the doctor slowly, something in which he never did, and placed his hands under John's jaw. "And why is that?" he asked in a whisper, eyes trained exactly on John's.

"Because," John said, his thin mouth still pulled back into a smirk, "you think you missed me more than I've missed you. You're wrong."

Sherlock pressed his lips onto his blogger's once before replying, "I've never thought being incorrect would become so satisfying."


	18. A Bundle of Sickened Pleads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M!A: Sherlock ignores a bad cold (and John's advice) to work a case. Eventually he becomes feverish enough to begin behaving strangely.

He was walking backwards (and sometimes speaking backwards too, if one might add). He was wandering aimlessly around the flat -and humming to himself. Playing the violin with the wrong hand. Asking odd questions. Demanding he wear one of John's jumpers. Whining for a cat. Telling Mrs. Hudson her dress looked nice today.

Sherlock Holmes, the impeccable and wonderful and cunning and amazing detective-man, had a cold.

He claimed, when asked by other than John, that Anderson had coughed on him when they were bickering if a string of lights could kill someone or not; however, in reality, he'd given it to himself by a error in an experiment a week earlier involving pears (why the fruit was prominent in his cold, John didn't know, although either way Sherlock wasn't reacting to it the way most people did… but then again nothing was ever normal with the violinist).

"John Hamish Watson," he said, his voice cracky and deep and round. Could voices be round? Maybe, John didn't know, but Sherlock was full of exceptions. "Kiss me, John Watson."

He was standing - well, leaning – somehow against the fireplace mantle. The tip of his skull, Billy, nudged the nape of his neck. His dressing robe hung at odd perceptions, a leg of his pajama bottoms was hiked up to his knee, and his hair was sticking out of place with random curls dangling in front of his eyes and a wave stretching out over his ear. His eyes were wild then, with sudden flashes of both engrossing silver and frothing blue, and his fingers could not quit tapping against things… his thigh, the wall, John's shoulder.

"Aaah, no," John said in that what-do-I-do-with-this-git-now type of voice. His hands gripped to the top of his armchair and he looked down at the cushion as he spoke.

"Not now, at least. Not like this. You're filthy and disgusting."

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up. Disgusting? How could he? "So you hate me," he said, although it was more of a declaration.

John, on their shared blog, had mentioned recently that he enjoyed when Sherlock was bored because he was incredibly childish and while he wasn't technically bored now, Sherlock was very… vulnerable. John, however, didn't like him like this because he was extremely repetitive and not very realistic with his "deductions".

Sherlock pouted.

"Oi, not that again," John exclaimed, shaking his head in complete denial. He slowly made his way over to where Sherlock was, slipped his arm around the lanky tree's waist, and guided him to the bedroom. "You need rest, okay? Sleep will always help. Doctor's order." And with a slight nudge, John pushed Sherlock into the room and closed the door. Maybe forced actions would help rather than nicely stated opinions.

Ten minutes later, when John had just finished with the first page of his newspaper, Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen fully dressed in his suit and purple shirt. "I'm ready to go."

John peered out from the edge of the paper with a questioning look plastered about his face. "What the bloody-" the doctor began, but stopped short. It was no use. Everything he would say would go in one ear and out the other. Or maybe it would make its way through the Mind Palace first and only then be forgotten. If he were to say 'No, you're not going to work on a case today. You're sick and acting like a toddler' it wouldn't help. Either way, John's words currently had no effect on Sherlock whatsoever. But he knew someone who might be able to get something across, even if the violinist was acting strange.

John sat up and walked towards and then down the steps with Sherlock on his heels. He held the large, dark door open for him, hailed a cab, and paid the driver as the detective got in.

And then John told the driver Mycroft Holmes's address before returning to the paper back up in the warmth of 221B.


	19. A Handful of Sleepy Sipping

There was a case, a rather establishing one at that, and Sherlock was worn from head to toe. Exhaustion constantly gripped ahold of his wrists and ankles, pulling him into a standing slumber, but being who he was and with the brain he had the shaggy violinist stuttered awake each time.

John watched all this with a hidden smirk and a sly chuckle.

He was tired too. His head was a mess with fingerprinting and DNA coding and maps of London and ingredients in types of quiches. It all spun around in that soldier's mind and was now (partially) useless – the case was over…through and through.

Sherlock held open the door to 221B with a shaky hand while John mumbled a scratchy "Ta," towards the violinist's direction.

They shrugged off their coats with impatient sighs and traveled somewhat towards the kitchen. John absentmindedly began the process of making tea. Sherlock disappeared into their room.

He returned seconds after John had placed their mugs on the table wearing his sapphire dressing gown. The doctor nodded in regards to the detective's change of clothing whereas the detective stumbled to keep his eyes open. What time was it again? And how long had they been up? Sherlock more hours than John, obviously, but both were exhausted out of their wits.

The sipped and slurped at their drinks (whatever would please them) in a thick moment of silence. Their actions were simultaneously rhythmic, as were their deep breathing. Almost one time or the other Sherlock would find John (or vice-versa) in the process of falling asleep and would be forced to nudge him conscious. It was a steady pattern of an engaging case night for them. It was normal.

When John finished with his tea, he stood up - a large scrape of lumber against lumber from the chair sliding alongside the floor - and shuffled to place his mug in the sink with the rest of their dirty dishes piled sky-high. That was normal too.

But John changed the plans.

Exhaustion did that to him sometimes.

He hobbled to where Sherlock was seated, cupped his fingertips along Sherlock's jaw, kissed him on the forehead, and then went to bed. He didn't care if Sherlock thought the action was stupid, sentimental, or any other adjective he fancied. He was just glad they finished the case successfully.

Once John had shut the door to their room, Sherlock smiled a large, sloppy grin.

Exhaustion did that to him sometimes.

And that was okay.


	20. An Obvious Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas time in 221B

John woke on Christmas to an armful of Sherlock Holmes. The detective’s very long limbs were tangled around his clunky body, trapping the doctor within their proximity. After attempting to wait until Sherlock woke himself (he hadn’t had much of it lately, no matter the effort John put into it), he fidgeted his way out of the maze…and accidentally roused Sherlock in the process.

John was just out the door when the detective mumbled a “Morning” into his pillow. He grinned to himself, said “Merry Christmas”, and closed the door behind him. Tea sounded excellent at this early hour, if ten in the morning would be considered early. It was to him, today, anyway.

Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen a whiles later, hair a jumbled, chaotic mess and eyes fairly glazed over with sleep. He hardly did reacted when John handed over a mug with chilled tea—just meandered his way over to the couch where he brought his knees up to his chest and rested the cup amazingly there. 

John sat in his chair opposing the detective, now finished with his drink, and skimmed the paper. Missing person here, job offers there… nothing really of substance for a case. Maybe, if he were lucky, Lestrade would arrive that night with not only a gift, but also a Christmas miracle: a case. Sherlock hadn’t had one in weeks surprisingly. Usually the holiday season was filled with them.

Sherlock eventually came to his wits, and, after slurping his drink very loudly, said, “Isn’t it customary to open gifts now? Isn’t that what normal people do?”

“I suppose, but then again I don’t think we are normal in most people’s eyes.”

Sherlock made some sort of noise, but it was muffled while he drank his tea.

“You said, on the blog, that you know what I’ve gotten for you,” John stated as he dropped the paper onto his lap, “is that true?”

Sherlock nodded and then took another drag from his tea.

“Then is there an actual point in me giving it to you?”

Sherlock’s head darted upwards and he scrabbled to keep his drink from spilling. His eyes shot up with electricity as he talked and his lips couldn’t help but to twitch into their half-sided smirk. “The laptop charger is a necessity if you’d like me to stop using yours since I’ve…destroyed… my own. The petri dishes, seeing that all of my own are currently` occupied, will also come into good use. And the new Cluedo board is mostly for your enjoyment. I’m not too fond of its rules, but because you are overly sentimental, I’ll accept it graciously.”

John swallowed and rubbed at his temple. “Why did I even wrap them?” he said weakly to himself.

“You’re a man of tradition,” Sherlock responded, barely able to take a sip of tea with his arrogant grin stretching the course of his marbled skin.

John watched him for a moment. Sherlock was quite brilliantly molded—with his forest of warming brown curls, to his eyes that never seemed to be the same color—Sherlock was engrossing to look at. Almost addicting.

John caught himself gawking and cleared his throat. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you,” he said, shaking his head, a grin now appearing on his own lips, “or else I would never put up with this rubbish.”

“You put up with it before you were fond of me.”

“I put up with you because there was a murderer on the loose and I had nowhere else to say, mind you.”

Sherlock chuckled.

Eventually John brought out his gifts and Sherlock acted surprised when he opened them, making dramatic ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s during stubborn moments for the full effect. Once he was done, and his computer was successfully charging next to John’s, he disappeared to their room. Sherlock didn’t emerge for a few minutes.

When he returned, he carried a small package in his hands. His gift was also wrapped—his gift was in green paper and topped with a red, velvet bow. And, in a swift flick of the wrist, he tossed it to John. Sherlock seated himself next to the, his legs spilling over John’s lap in the process. The poor man had such long legs. John couldn’t imagine having to deal with their length so often. But, then again, he assumed Sherlock hardly noticed it.

John tore opening the paper slowly—almost to make what was inside more of a surprise. What would Sherlock give to someone? A bag of intestines? An alphabetized collection of dust varieties? Having now revealed what was inside, John found that Sherlock hadn’t given him any of those things, but instead a small, leather-back journal.

“It was mine,” he explained, fingers resting on his chest as it rose and fell progressively. “I wrote in it when I was dead. I’ve been trying to decide whether or not to show it to you and somehow giving it to you now felt most logical. I thought you would be less… despondent if I gave it to today rather than any time earlier.”

John peeled back the cover and discovered Sherlock’s messy scrawl suffocating the pages. He went on from writing things about minor cases he was working on, entries of his thoughts, to a small essay on honeybees near the back. Some of the notes—actually, most of them—consisted of thoughts about John. Sherlock went on about how he was worried for John’s health, scribbles about John’s personality, speculations as to what he might have been doing at that exact moment, and to descriptions of John’s appearance and habits (some of which John didn’t know he had until reading them…did he really curse that often?).

John glanced up from the journal, gaped at the detective for a minute, and then pressed his lips into a line. “Sherlock,” he breathed, eyes wild with life.

Sherlock slipped off the couch and strode to his desk. His fingers fumbled through a stack of paper as he spoke. “I didn’t expect you to like it, just thought you’d want to have it. You’ll have more use of it than I will.”

“No,” he said sternly while shaking his head. He over-pronounced the ‘N’. “No. This is fine, Sherlock. Great, actually. It means a lot to think that you thought of me this much while we were separated. This is perfect.”

Sherlock’s grief stricken face quickly darted to suppressed glee as a smile cracked through his lips. He looked up from the mess. “Is this where I’m compelled to wish you a Merry Christmas?”

“Not essentially.”

John stood up from the couch and walked to where Sherlock was. He threaded his arms around the detective’s torso. “Merry Christmas, you git.”

Sherlock chuckled and pressed his mouth to the top of John’s head. “And a happy New Year,” he added while a smile wound its way to his lips.


	21. A Murder for Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to the sodding git with the funny hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 160 years old. He's getting up there with the doctor, eh *intense winking until i die (hopefully)*

"Morning," mumbled John once he’d stumbled out of their bedroom. His sandy hair was a mess, limbs were practically sagging with exhaustion, and eyes unquestionably glazed over with dreary thoughts.  
In response, Sherlock flicked on his blowtorch and continued to incinerate his experiment while a sloppy smirk cracked through one side of his plump lips. Upon further examination, John found that Sherlock was actually alighting a pair of lungs on fire instead of his usual fabric variances.

“Early birthday gift,” Sherlock explained once he noticed John eyeing them, “from Molly. Stopped down at Bart’s yesterday for the case. Solved it while you were at the pub. It was the security man, like I said. She spotted me and wouldn’t let me leave without them.” As Sherlock clarified the situation, his expression grew more and more innocent with each word, almost as if it excited him to be presented with such a desired organ. Which, after dwelling on the matter, it probably did.

John gulped. Maybe his plan wasn’t the best. Maybe Sherlock already deduced everything, even if John remembered to wipe the laptop’s history after researching. He was always like that. He’d even had known exactly what John had gotten him for Christmas before seeing the gifts. Was all this drafting even worth it if he knew?

While John busied himself with tea he thought it through. After all, if else failed, Mycroft did say he’d bring a cake over later in the evening. But both Sherlock and John had a suspicion that it wouldn’t arrive there full.

John slid tea over the counter to his scientist. He pulled out his phone, typed up a quick message, and sent it.

•••

Sherlock checked his mobile once the lungs were back in the freezer. ‘Happy Birthday. JW,’ it read. 

•••

It took a good hour or so to get Sherlock out the door, dressed, and showered. He was fairly slow that day for a reason John couldn’t quite pick out. Regret? Distress? Anxiety?

John pursed his lips…no going back now. Sherlock wouldn’t let him live this one down for a while if he did.

When the cab pulled up to New Scotland Yard, Lestrade greeted them with a grin, “John said you’d be needing this.” He handed Sherlock a flash drive and then pocketed his fists.

“How’s my brother. Diet again?” Sherlock asked, following the D.I. inside. John was on their heels soon enough.

“He’s said to be baking you a cake for the occasion,” Lestrade replied, “How much of a diet do you expect him to be on?”

“Obviously not a good one.”

Greg’s eyebrow hitched up while all three men exited the lift. Once in Lestrade’s office, Sherlock sat down on the D.I.’s chair and plugged in the zip drive to the laptop. A code popped up onto the screen immediately.

It only took eight seconds for Sherlock to solve it.

‘Two suicides. One building apart. No connection found yet. Kensington.’

Sherlock slid his glance to John. “And now I know why you really didn’t go to the pub last night.”

John squinted and hummed, “Mmm?”

“No alcohol on your breath,” Sherlock replied and then jabbed a finger in Lestrade’s direction, “but you were out with him, demanding a decent case for my birthday. Where in Kensington exactly?”

•••

They ended the night at Angelo’s, precisely how they had ended many other special nights in their life together as friends. The case had gone well—lasted just long enough for it to be time to eat some sort of meal, if anything at all for Sherlock. Angelo greeted them with hugs and a candle on the table, as per usual. Once their hefty friend was back in the kitchen, preparing some sort of “birthday fettuccini” for both of them, Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes burning with a vivid enthusiasm John only got to see it a few times within his life, but he noted that the occurrences were growing by the year. The detective smiled, clasped John’s hand in his own, and added, “You’ve outdone yourself. Honestly. I wasn’t expecting anything seeing as you forgot entirely of the occasion last year. This was appreciated.”

John tilted his head to the side and allowed a nervous grin to slip through his lips. “You didn’t deduce anything about it beforehand?”

“I didn’t want to. I tried to stay out of the deductions as much as possible by busying myself with smaller cases and experiments throughout the week.”

“Next year you can have my cane, then.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He gaped at John.

“You’re getting old,” the doctor explained through a stifled chuckle. “It was a joke. Sorry. Won’t try and be funny again.”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and then grinned like a drunken bloke. “Thank you.”

“Any time.”


	22. A Playful Sun-Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock purchase a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On obviouslydeduced, the boys purchased a little black Bombay kitten (Sherlock very unwillingly) named Gladstone. I received an M!A where Sherlock had to react in some matter to the cat toys John purchased. Here it is.

"Sherlock, I'm back," John called from the steps. He'd grown used to carrying up the groceries alone, grown used to Sherlock continuing whatever the hell he was working on, but he hadn't grown used to seeing Sherlock at the top of the steps, which this time he did.

The man clasped the doorframe on both sides with his hands. He didn't offer to help John with the load, nor give him a bit of thanks for going out to buy food for the week in order to keep them both alive; he merely stood there – taking up the bit of light 221B shuffled into the stairway.

His words slipped from his lips in clunky breaths and his eyes were wide with fear. "I thought the hound was terrifying, but this… this beast is a monster!"

"Calm down, Sherlock. It's just a cat," John said as he pushed past the violinist and started to unload his purchases. When he was finished, he tossed a new laser pointer in the detective's direction. "Here, use that."

Sherlock looked at him in disgust… almost like he was a stain on a clean shirt… and leaned closer so their foreheads were touching. "For what?" he spat.

John stepped away and grabbed his laptop, sat down, and began to type. Possibly an article about how Sherlock was acting due to an animal in the flat, the detective presumed. "Point it at the wall. She'll like it."

The cat, as he spoke of her, meowed from her spot near Sherlock's violin. He shot her a rude look. She purred.

As John titled his new post "Opposites Attract", Sherlock tore open the plastic wrappings for the cat toy and fidgeted with it for a bit. And soon enough, a small, red dot scurried the length of the wall. Gladstone's eyes were open wide and she dashed to where the laser was pointed. Sherlock peered at it himself.

This lasted around an hour. Sherlock amused himself by watching a creature frantically busy herself with merely a light, while John entertained himself by writing the whole commotion down.

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped purposefully. Gladstone hissed.

"Bored!" he moaned, sulking over to the couch where he settled with a dull 'thump'.

John stood, rocked on his heels, clasped his fingers together, and said, "I bought more."

Sherlock wasn't on the couch for very long. He too stood and made his way to the kitchen where he continued with his experiment, which had very abruptly been interrupted. "I don't care," the detective responded as he swished around some sort of chemical in a glass vial.

The doctor placed an automatic mouse on the floor and watched how every time it moved the kitten would pounce for it.

The funny thing was, Sherlock did something similar.

Whenever the mouse darted off this way or that, Sherlock would jerk his head towards the direction it was in, rather startled by all of its captivating nonsense. His eyes would settle deeply on it until he was sure it was finished and then he would continue adding more of that gaudy blue stuff in with the green, though the toy just went on and on and on. And so did the head jerking.

John chuckled. Sherlock really was a cat.


	23. A Pounding for Blasted Bloke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M!A: Sherlock returns home extremely drunk and refuses to tell John where he's been.

One.

A large, deep, pounding slammed itself against 221's entrance.

Two.

Another bellow emerged from the blue-soaked embers.

Three.

The pounds shook the door awake with a startle each time.

John rushed to the door and gripped the handle just as the fourth was beginning. In his right hand he clutched his cane while his Sauer P226 standard was hidden near his lower back. In a single jerked movement, he threw the large door open.

His eyes widened.

This wasn't what he expected.

Actually, this wasn't even close to anything he imagined.

There, standing just in front of him with his hair a big tangled mess and his teeth stained slightly purple, was Sherlock Holmes.

The detective's mouth was next to John's ear in an instant. With his hands clasped behind his back, clutching onto his gloves, and his gangly frame leaning as far forwards as he could without falling, Sherlock mumbled a perky, "HiJohn."

Holmes grinned. John inhaled a distinct scent of wine on Sherlock's breath as he did so and hell. This night was nowhere near planned.

When Sherlock leaned back into a normal, somewhat upright position, his normally piercing eyes were glazed over. It was clear he didn't go to the Yard like he said he was. The breath and the fact that, well, the poor man couldn't even keep his eyes open for more than five seconds sealed the case. Sherlock was drunk. He lied to John. And, most importantly, it was going to be tricky getting him to bed.

"Yes, oh, hi. Ah... Come inside and tell me where you've been."

Sherlock pouted. He shook his head. "No. I don't really want to go in. I'm too go in."

John pretended as if he understood exactly what his violinist was trying to say. He nodded, smiled widely, and slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist. The back part of his coat was damp.

"Oi. Where. Have. You. Been?" John said in a frustrated sigh, guiding the detective up stairs. Holmes tripped and fell a few times, but John managed. Sherlock had a tendency to poison himself for "entertainment" every now and then just to see what would occur.

On the top step the taller man froze in his tracks. He gazed at the inside of 221B, turned quickly to John, and mumbled, "I don't want to do this."

"Do what?"

"Take the last step."

John placed his hand on the small of the detective's back and shoved him forward. "Oh, bloody hell. Yes you will."

Eventually, Sherlock was secure within the walls of his home. John tugged off Sherlock's coat and scarf, hanging them up on the selected hook promptly while the violinist glared at the cat whom was coyly sitting on the sofa. The doctor, knowing that it could go on for a good time or two, stepped into the bathroom to snatch up a moist cloth. When he returned, Sherlock was towering over the creature and droning nonsenses to her.

"Sherlock!"

"What? I'm only talking to the couch."

"..Oi."

A few moments later, when Sherlock was placed in his chair with a wet towel curtaining his forehead, John asked again, for the third time, "Where were you?"

"Gary took me to the pub."

"Greg?"

"His name is Gary. Giraffe. Jared. Jeffery. George. Joseph. Joffre. John. …John!"

"Sherlock?"

The detective clutched onto John's oatmeal jumper and heaved him down to his level. "Are we dating? As in a relationship? Are we are dating?"

"I think so. Hmm? Yes. I suppose so."

Sherlock threw his head back in laughter. "That's good," he cackled, "because Gary says that you're too hot for me."

Maybe self-poisoning was better than blasted Sherlock. Almost anything, at this steady rate, was.

"Tell Gary Mycroft's too hot for him."


	24. A Wish For Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heater is broken. So is John's hope for the world.

John rubbed his palms together furiously, but it didn't do much—the warmth had already drained from his hands hours ago and Sherlock was occupying all limited room in front of the fire possible. Today was not his day. It never seemed to be.

"This isn't working, John!" cried the detective from the ground in that sodding, over pronouncing baritone of his. The words bounced off the chilly walls and frigid entryways… they even danced around the room and made their way back—all the way to John.

"I just want to be warm, can't you see that?"

John muttered his response under his glacial breath. "I'm not blind," he said.

"What?"

"I'm. Not. Blind. You have all the covers in the house on you… there's nothing more I can do. No need to bring up the tension just because the temperature drops."

"Hell," the detective said, his pale fingers etching arrogant pathways through his forest of curls. Every now and then they would latch around one and tug on it anxiously. "When did he say he was coming to fix it?"

"Tomorrow. Now shut the bloody hell up or I'm calling your brother."

Sherlock's frame shot up. He was propped onto his elbows with his eyes yanked open. "You will not," the violinist said, "Mycroft is not coming here."

"He is if you don't shut your f— you know what, stay there. Pout by yourself. I don't care, really, Sherlock. Not anymore. I'm going out."

"What's it like in your brain, John? It's colder out there! You'll freeze!"

He could have responded, yes, he could have. Possibly a snarky "There's no difference!" or "Not colder than your condescension!" but he chose not to. In this case, the stronger impression would to be to ignore Sherlock completely, to deny his existence. And, sooner or later, it would crawl under his skin with twitching feet and eat away at him until he would finally give up and request John be at his side. Under blankets. Next to the warmth of a fire and human flesh.

It would just take awhile, really. John hoped it wouldn't, though. The London air was strenuously miserable.

Each footprint pressed into the soggy cement would become a worn thought pushed away, until he used that foot again. Only then would it return and John found himself in patterns.

He walked until he was certain his fingers would drop off his hands, until he could no longer sense that his nose was, yes, still intact with his face. And, sooner or later, he found himself mindlessly at a familiar doorstep. He rolled his eyes a bit, bounced on his toes once, and propped it open. Mrs. Hudson greeted him.

"You should have wrapped your self up there a bit more, dear. I'm afraid you caught something while you were out and about."

John nodded, "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'm fine. Really. No need to fret." And he walked up the stairs.

When he arrived, John shrugged off his jacket (and slipped out of his shoes). Sherlock bellowed, "If only I had someone to wager with…"

"Hmm?"

"You were out forty-two minutes. One to stop and chat with Mrs. Hudson, three for stopping at various places in Regent's for pondering, and give or take three for your various paces in the cold. Thirty-five minutes you walked, John. You went through the park—turned right when you got to the café… there's a distinct aroma to you that only belongs there…and then you meandered a bit until you got to Inner Cir.. From there you crossed the lake and came home—the path you carelessly take when you've been frustrated with me and wish to say something, but haven't yet swallowed your pride in order to do so. There's no better time than the present, John. Get to it."

John peered down at his friend, the detective, who was swaddled in various blankets and soothed by the fire, and said, "You're whining and it picks at my skin. Especially because you are the warmest person in the flat."

"And yet you hung up your coat. You're not finished… spit it out."

He closed his eyes briefly and opened them before responding, "May I join you?"

Sherlock looked bewildered. This wasn't an expression he often wore. John felt his gut attach itself to his heart and leech it down to his feet.

The violinist opened his mouth to speak, yet didn't until a few more fire crackled moments passed. "You didn't have to ask, John. I thought we were… together. Have I done something to upset you other than the moaning?"

"Things have just felt off recently. We've been busy and—"

Sherlock waved him off. "Shut up," he seethed.

"What?"

"Get yourself over here and quit making this any more complicated. It's cold. You have an excuse if you feel the need for one."

The fire nipped at his flesh while John found himself next to Sherlock. And, as he pressed his head in the crook of the violinist's shoulder and his legs entangled with the opposing pair, he said, "I'd shoot you for this."

"You really wouldn't," Sherlock responded.

They were silent for a while, until John quietly said, "Did you know you can change the colors? Of the fire? Might be entreating."


	25. A Missing Man or Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally finishes a large case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This goes along a bit with some of the things going on at[obviouslydeduced](http://obviouslydeduced.tumblr.com/tagged/alone/chrono). _ John arrived home one morning after working a nightshift to a letter on the counter. "Don't worry," it said. Sherlock had seemingly gone off on a case alone to track down a missing man, Steven Danift, who was being 'hunted'. John begins to worry, seeing as Sherlock has not returned back to the flat in days, and begins searching for him. He finds numerous notes written in yellow chalk for him on some buildings attached to his and Sherlock's past (Bart's, college from ASIP, etc). One of the last note says "Circus, Charing." John had already received notification of a man Sherlock's stature sighted in the Picadilly Circus area holding a gun, but not threatening people so John goes there first instead of Charing. When he arrives, he finds more chalk... this time in the shape of a triangle in front of the tube entrance. After piecing together Sherlock's clues and figuring out that Sherlock is leading him to Leicester Square (last point in triangle), he starts running. This takes off from there.
> 
> (I hope that wasn't too confusing)

John ran. And Ran. And ran. He estimated it would take around ten minutes at this pace to get to Leicester Square—where Sherlock had guided him.

As his feet pounded the slickened cement, one foot echoing the other in a systemized rhythm, his chest heaved up and down. Each breath nearly choked him as he sucked it in and stained the November wind as it exited his chapped, thin lips. He didn't know exactly where he was going—Sherlock had only given him a general location—so when he arrived at the Square, forehead beaded with slick perspiration, he panicked slightly.

John's shoes slipped to a halt and his eyes scanned the area. What would Sherlock be thinking while being chased down by a group of murders? What would that mind of his be doing, be going through?

And then he remembered.

Sherlock's last note, the triangle, which informed John that Leicester was the last point and the one he needed to be at, was at the base of a tube entrance.

Christ, that man was brilliant.

John tumbled down the stairs rapidly, taking two at a time (and sometimes even three), and when he made it to the bottom his blood was already thick. Sherlock, his mind screamed, where was this bloody bastard? Why couldn't he have just texted John instead of making him run through London without a break? Why did he have to put on such a show? What—

And then John heard it.

Somewhere towards his right was a voice… a voice so deep it slithered through the scaffolding and orange construction cones. Come to me, the murmuring baritone practically said. And John did.

He hid behind a pole and watched carefully. Two men were restrained in chairs, hands tied behind their backs and feet secured together. A group of figures loomed in the distance. With a quick guess that the seated men were Sherlock and Danift, John dialed up Lestrade. He answered on the fourth ring.

"He's got Danift here, but they're both held hostage," John said in a splitting whisper, "and from what I can see, they've got guns." He then proceeded to describe their location, and, before he allowed the D.I. any response, ended the call.

Lestrade and his forces arrived within minutes. They sprinted down the stairs in bulletproof vests and helmets—armed with guns. John tailed behind Lestrade as he entered and he nearly tripped when his eyes found Sherlock.

His normally unruly hair was a jungle. Frizz and knots, the detective must have been tugging his fingers through it again as he thought again. John groaned. He figured he had helped Sherlock quit that habit. From what he could see in the dim lighting, Sherlock's eyes were a hazy grey instead of their normal sky blue and beads of sweat trickled down his neck. His hands were quivering a bit, his feet were firmly rooted to the cement, and his overall expression was blank… that is, until he noticed John.

The doctor managed his way through the mess of cops and was able to untie Sherlock from all his restraints as the men who held Sherlock and Danift hostage were being handcuffed. Someone—Anderson, John thought he saw—was busy untying Steven to his side. But it didn't matter anymore, not really. The Steven Danift was found, his hunters were under arrest, and Sherlock was immensely pale. And his skin was chilly when John ripped off the tie around his wrists. He was miserable.

They didn't speak until they were in the cab—alone. And when Sherlock did, his voice was rather choked and deeper than it normally was. "You found my notes, I take it," he said smugly, a smile twitching its way unto one selected side of his lips. Generally, he would wipe it off as soon as it appeared, but this time he let it stay for the sake of a worried doctor.

John nodded once, very curtly of him to do. "Yes. Yes I did." He looked up to Sherlock, noticed his iconic grin, and flashed his own before adding, "It was smart of you to do that… leading me to the scene and all."

"Knew you'd figure it out," Sherlock commented slyly as he fidgeted with John's phone. A text from Lestrade about discussing what happened flickered on the screen. He slipped it into his pocket unanswered.

John scuffled out a few chuckles before replying, "You left a trail of breadcrumbs… just like Hansel and Gretel, yeah? Bart's, the college. You sucked them all in, just for me. Just so I would know it was you. Vatican Cameos in yellow chalk, very clever."

Sherlock smiled again. John did too.

When they arrived at 221, and after John paid and they were already up those stairs that they had treaded on a thousand and one times, Sherlock turned to John and said, "Thank you."

John knitted his eyebrows into a line. 'For?...' it said.

"Following me. Not worrying. For making sure I was safe." Sherlock paused. That sincere smirk sketched his lips back once more and his eyes, which had somehow managed to morph back into a simmering blue, gleamed. "I appreciate it."

John slipped off his shoes and hung his jacket on its hook. Sherlock did the same and tugged his phone out of his coat pocket, the coat that had stayed at home due to the fact that he was "undercover". The violinist skimmed through his unopened texts. They were all from John. And they were all about him fussing over his sudden disappearance.

After they had changed into more casual clothing and Sherlock was washed up, the two detectives skidded to bed. John's fingertips clutched onto the fabric screening Sherlock's back. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's temple firmly and then propped his chin atop John's head. One man, the one with a forest of thick curls and wild eyes, had not slept in over a week, nor had anything to eat or drink in a while. The other, the one with sandy hair and watery eyes, had not slept in over four days. For the first time in many, after searching to be home again with each other, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson drifted off to the crashing and falling of the other's breaths. They didn't wake until an entire day was finished.


	26. A Reckless Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock usually wakes first.

It was a rare occurrence for Sherlock Holmes to still be in bed by the time John woke. They had a long night that previous evening—with the triple murder, Anderson's idiotic banters, and Mycroft's surprise appearance (which led to Lestrade being extremely flustered). Sherlock needed that night of sleep and John was lucky enough to even get the detective in bed. On some nights it took John two hours, others three with bribes. But last night all he had to do was politely ask him to join him and the lanky scientist with a head of messy curls followed him without a word.

When he woke, the hour was just itching its way up to nine-thirty and his arm had fallen asleep next to him. This was the first thing John noticed—the first thing that told him that Sherlock was still asleep. The door to the room was also closed and there was no racket coming from the rest of the flat. Sherlock's head was nestled in John's shoulder, but it was entitling his limb to numb and buzz with annoyance. He was about to move it when Sherlock's eyes opened, too.

"Morning," he said into John's neck. He only moved his head slightly. Just enough for John to get a good look at him and not too far away where he would crave body heat.

John smiled his John Watson smile back and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock swallowed and opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't find the words to say. John noticed his eyes. They were very glassy with the drawn out exhaustion finally taking ahold of him and they were pale, paler than their usual sea green. John frowned.

"My body is catching up. There's only so many nights I can go without sleep before this happens, hmm?" he eventually managed in a sleepy slur. Sherlock dragged his hand up to his face where he struggled to rub away some fatigue still plaguing his skin. John took the chance to move his pixilating arm to a more comfortable, blood flow-friendly, position.

"I can go make some tea if you'd like," John suggested after awhile. He quite liked these mornings in bed with Sherlock. They never said much usually, but enjoyed each other's proximity and warmth instead. It was an admirable type of silence almost like the one of a shared smile, but longer and more exerted.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a line and tugged his eyebrows closer to his lashes. "I can wait. Please stay," he said with a heaving, weary breath. Throughout all his medical history, John had never seen someone so extensive with his or her bodily limits as Sherlock was. He had never seen someone who could go without eating for a day or two and forget to sleep for another handful. The only time Sherlock seemed to notice these poor habits were on days like these when his body simply wouldn't allow any more reckless behavior. John imagined that he had this ability due to his drug behavior in his earlier years. Drugs always did damage on natural behavior cycles, only most people seemed to resolve it once they quit. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to have that capability.

John eyed Sherlock. Frizzy curls curtaining his lesser blue eyes, fair skin elongating adeptly shaped bones. It was almost astonishing how much a person's flesh could echo their mind.

From their bedside table, Sherlock's phone buzzed once—short and to the point. Lestrade.

Sherlock, without moving his eyes from John, stretched an arm behind him and managed to clutch onto his mobile. He had to squint at the letters once he brought it up near his face. "Case to do with a school invasion," he mumbled as he tossed the phone towards the foot of the bed.

"We can go down a bit later," John recommended thoughtfully.

Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's jaw and replied, "You spoil me, John Watson."


	27. A Response

John taps away at his computer with an undying, steady patter. The rain outside seems to mimic his movements. As if it were giving its approval on his newest blog post, it seemed. Or something of that matter.

Sherlock was too busy staring at John to care about the rain.  
He sat across from his blogger—his hands steepled in front of his lips, expression simple and focused, and his eyes unmoving from John’s face.

Sherlock noticed a shift in pace with John’s typing. He snatched a book from the other side of the table without making any noise and buried his nose in it. He would never be caught in the action. It was too…innocent. Sherlock didn’t like to be innocent. The word itself was so pathetic that it rolled off his tongue like hot venom.

The violinist heard the doctor pause in his writing, clear his throat, and continue. He was undoubtedly taking a break to look at Sherlock. Possibly because he had come to a point in his entry where Sherlock shattered half a dozen watermelons in their kitchen for an experiment, possibly because he just liked looking at Sherlock the same way Sherlock liked looking at him. Either option was entirely realistic and either option would satisfy Sherlock. John made definition lose its sense of worth. When he was with John, his mind was given time to breathe and catch up to him.

And he needed that. Hence, Sherlock Holmes needed John Watson.

He felt John’s eyes burn into his forehead again as he reread the same sentence for the sixth time. “Yes,” John said, all of a sudden.

Sherlock made an ambiguous noise as he peered at John from over the brim of his book. “Hmm?”

John pressed his lips into a line and looked down at his keyboard. He looked back up at Sherlock. He licked his lips.

“Spit it out,” Sherlock huffed.

John sucked in a heavy breath. “Yes. Yes I’ll marry you,” he said. John’s ears flushed a heavy shade of red as he watched Sherlock with a strained look elegantly sewn to his skin.

Sherlock parted his lips and blinked. He blinked again. He blinked three more times. Then seven more, then thirteen. Other than blinking, Sherlock Holmes did not move. His eyes were latched down onto John’s, both cycling over his delicate face and rummaging through his head.

_“We should get married,” he’d said, his fingers hastily sending a text to Lestrade as the cab drove them to Bart’s._

_John eyed him with an uncertain haze. “What?”_

_“It wouldn’t be any different,” Sherlock explained. “We’d have to pick a last name and put rings on in the morning, but nothing would change.”_

_“But you think life celebrations are trivial.”_

_Sherlock pocketed his phone. He glanced at John naively. “I do,” he said. His brows creased. “But you don’t.”_

_John didn’t say anything for a long moment. It was when the cab driver had to tell them they were there that they stopped watching each other. “Nothing would change,” Sherlock said again, before slipping out of the cab._

_He didn’t speak any more of it for the rest of the evening._

Sherlock wasn’t one to kneel down and present John with a ring. And luckily for him, John wasn’t one either. Although he was a very practical and traditional man, he would hate proposing himself. He would hate having to wait for Sherlock’s answer.

But, in turn, he made Sherlock wait for his answer.

So Sherlock continued to ask.

_Sherlock placed down a cup of tea in front of John’s newspaper. John looked up briefly and then back to his daily. Sherlock didn’t usually make tea. Something was up._

_“Since I got you your tea, I think we should get married,” he had said casually._

_John gave him a stern look, picked up his cuppa, and took a sip. He didn’t respond._

Sherlock knew John needed time to mull things over in his own head. He was a very sentimental man—a heart to Sherlock’s lonesome head—but he had been sure John would respond sooner.

“Sherlock?” John called from across the table. He had shut his laptop. “Did I say something wrong?”

Sherlock blinked again. He tried to respond, but the words got caught somewhere in his chest and began to froth. He could feel the joy jumble around inside of him, something that never happened without John. John had reset him. John had made him new.

“You mean you’ll marry me? After all this time?” he finally managed. His expression was wrought in attention.

John nodded.

With a clunky scrape of his chair dragging across the kitchen tile, John stood up and walked to where Sherlock was. He held out his hand. Sherlock stood too.

“Look, I’m sorry for taking so long. I just wanted to make sure you asking me this was not an experiment or something. I wanted to make sure you really wanted this, too, and that I wasn’t going at our relationship too strong. Because last time you didn’t come back. And I don’t think I can do that again. I just needed time to think.” John clasped Sherlock’s hand is his own. “I do love you, though. That has never changed.”

Sherlock’s eyes stay crinkled at the sides as he presented John with a large, hearted grin. His love for John had been accidental, but with this, he knew somewhere there was a formula behind it. Some type of algorithm with the way John made him change. There was a science with everything, but with John, he could never fully be discovered—even with Sherlock Holmes on the case.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s in one, swift moment. His hands tangled in John’s hair. “It would make sense for me to marry the only person I am capable to love.”


	28. A Record of Sleep

There was a steady hum slipping out of the strings of Sherlock's violin. No case. Three in the morning. Nightmare.

It had been so long.

John's legs slid off the mattress and his feet found his slippers. With a single groan, he pushed himself off the bed. He rubbed his eyes, managed to find the doorknob, and entered the one-man orchestra.

There was Sherlock, ice eyes drawn naturally to his fingertips, his focus hawk-like and unwavering, breaths slow and even. John closed his eyes and savored the rich sound, the shrill of the higher strings and the drone of the lower. His chest rattled.

Bracing himself on the back of one of their kitchen chairs, John noticed a cool breeze on his neck and found that the window near Sherlock's music stand was half open. He held hostage a chuckle. There was always something with him.

It took minutes for John's eyes to attune to the thick yellow lighting of the sitting room as they trailed Sherlock's swaying from one side of his armchair to the other.

He tried to count. Last time this had happened was in the spring. May came to the tip of his tongue. Right before Molly's birthday.

It had been at least four months since Sherlock's last nightmare. That was going in the record books John would keep in his old nightstand drawer if he kept record books.

Perhaps he should. _It has been ten days since Sherlock put his catalogue of bat wings in the toaster. It has been zero days since Sherlock has put his catalogue of bat wings in the toaster._ John supposed that it wouldn't be a very interesting book, considering Sherlock's inconsistent tendencies, but it was far better than the idea of a scrapbook. He was sure Mrs. Hudson would dote on the idea.

Sherlock's face laid only an arms length away when John came back to his senses.

"Go back to bed," he huffed.

"No."

"I don't need you to stay up just because I can't."

John scrunched up his nose and ran a hand through his bristly hair before saying, "I'm not having this argument again. We have it every time."

There was a loud stirring of strings when Sherlock dropped his violin on the table with less concern than John was comfortable with. "Fine. Don't follow me next time. Argument over." He crossed his arms over his chest. John grew dizzy.

"Let me get you tea," Sherlock said. He made it to the counter in a single stride, dressing gown fluttering like a parade following after him.

"Sherlock—"

He turned. Frowned. "Hmm?"

The small light dangling down from above the sink with a single wire hinted at Sherlock's face. Its blue light etched soft canyons into his cheeks, a mountain range the size of the Himalayas in between his eyebrows.

John walked over to Sherlock. Put his hands on the violinist's to halt the production of tea. "I'm fine."

"You woke up because you heard a sodding violin. You're not fine, you're incredibly good at picking things up while you sleep," Sherlock said, voice low and words a bit slurred. He blinked, lashes pressing against the summit of his cheeks.

John reached up, his fingertips tracing the line underneath Sherlock's eyebrow and then down his face so he could cup his jaw. He took another step foreword. Sherlock's feet made a striped pattern with his own. His thumb traced the arch of his lips. They both sighed.

"Did the violin help?" he asked.

Sherlock pressed his lips into the pad of John's thumb before giving him a single nod. He closed his eyes and he didn't open them until after John's lips had left his forehead.

"Bed?" he asked.

Sherlock laced his hand in John's. He groaned, but followed John back into the sheets nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm more surprised than you are that i actually updated


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